


Embers Synonymous with Fear

by Mersayde



Series: Ghastly Antiques [6]
Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Other, fears, passing thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-27 01:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14414610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mersayde/pseuds/Mersayde
Summary: Pondering alone can never be good.Written: 4/13/17





	Embers Synonymous with Fear

And there he sat in a hollow room. An impassioned silence startled by the cackling of the flames, mocking him, mocking his past.

He remembers a touch. A touch that ripped open his skin, that devoured his light. A touch that sent him out of his body.

He remembers a voice. A voice under the sounds of their whispers. A voice that caused him to melt in between the space of their walls.

He remembers the clouds. Notes how they don’t look the same anymore. No life, no shape, no form.

He remembers that used to be his favorite thing, making pictures out of those floating spectacles in the sky. But now it’s not. 

The trees don’t look the same. He no longer can breathe the air they gift him. The flowers don’t look the same. They never seemed more dull. The sun doesn’t look the same. It’s covered and his eyes burn. His ears ring and his chest tightens. He doesn't know how to feel anymore. How to touch. He wishes He could. It used to be simple but now it’s not. He wants to say it was stolen from him but knows it’s his fault.

He does not want to keep killing off these parts of himself, parts of him that are good. That are tangible and real and soft and always in reach for someone else to see.

He does not want to keep ripping them out like the source of a sickness, because he is embarrassed of what he's created, of what he's become on skin.

He does not want to keep wilting, to keep drying out under the sun. Where his leaves and stems break off like the brittle fragments of his soul.

He does not want to be plucked from the ground before he has the chance to grow. Before he has the chance to bloom into whatever he needs to become.

He runs in his head until his lungs are swallowing air they cannot breathe, until he is sure that he will collapse in on himself.

He picks everything apart, takes his bitten down nails and wedges himself in between his disparity, until it cracks beneath his false accusations.

He wants to be so bright it burns, so breathtaking it suffocates, so melodic it sings.

But he is afraid that he is so dark he consumes, so heavy he sinks into the pavement, so cold that he freezes the warmth of others around him.

Can you hear him?

He is _afraid_.

And he is screaming until his busted vocal chords bleed, until they weep under his pain and give way to the pressure.

He is afraid that he is his own monster that is waiting for him under his bed,

That he is his own ghost creaking beneath the stairs.

His emotions run rampant, but is never blind to the rush behind his eyes,

Never uncertain of what is crumbling of him.

He is afraid that he is the fuel to the flames engulfing his redemption.

That he is so lost that he is not a destination, but a directionless road underneath the ground.

That his fear is all that he is.

He is afraid that he can never become a vision in his future because he strays unhinged in his past.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Kudos? Favorite parts?


End file.
